


Tickets

by variousangst



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adorable Papyrus (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Horrortale (Undertale), Angst, Autistic Papyrus (Undertale), Bara Sans (Undertale), Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Murder, Dark Past, Horrortale Papyrus (Undertale), Horrortale Sans (Undertale), Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Papyrus (Undertale), POV Sans (Undertale), POV Second Person, Papyrus (Undertale) Knows More Than He Lets On, Past Character Death, Past Violence, Reader Is Not Chara (Undertale), Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Reader-Insert, Sans (Undertale) Has Issues, Sans (Undertale) Has Night Terrors, Sans (Undertale) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sans (Undertale) Needs a Hug, Sans (Undertale) Swears, Tags May Change, Younger Brother Papyrus (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/variousangst/pseuds/variousangst
Summary: You meet at a theme park. Who knew big, scary skeletons could man a ticket booth?ーYou meet at a theme park. Who knew humans could be so adorable?
Relationships: Papyrus & Sans (Undertale), Papyrus (Undertale) & Reader, Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 38
Kudos: 165





	1. Chapter 1

You didn't think things could get more annoying than those first few days on the Surface, when all the humans seemed intent on interviewing you and Papyrus and anyone else within sight. A growl had been rumbling under your voice the whole time, the urge to just kill those pests mounting with every passing moment.

And so far, you had been proven right. But this came close. Very, very close.

Your human coworker seemed intent on doing everything themself, untrusting of the big, scary monster quietly watching fail compilations as he counted money in the back. (The big, scary monster is you, by the way. You'll never understand humans. You aren't sure you want to.) The weather- and wasn't that a thought all by itself, weather, the atmosphere, seasons? Anyways, that wasn't the point, you were getting distracted again. That happened a lot, where your thoughts trailed off and you couldn't keep the same line of thought- train of thought, was that how humans said it? Man, trains were such a weird concept, having such a large area to live in that you'd need and be willing to build such a method of transportation, and damn it you were getting off topic again, _back to the present, you big oaf._

...What had you been thinking about again?

You're irritated. You have to be irritated about _something_.

Your coworker hands you a few ones, and you add them to the cashbox, mentally tallying them up with the rest of today's earnings.

Right. Your coworker. You'd been annoyed with them, and then... the weather. You'd been thinking about the weather. It's too hot, which wouldn't be a problem in itself; you'd spent plenty of time in Hotland during the days of the Underground, and boy, those were good times. You can't remember most of them, but they definitely left an impression on you, of laughter and friendship, but that was before the famine, and you remember even less of that, except-

No, you're getting off topic again. The weather. You're complaining about the weather.

It's hot, which isn't the issue- it's the humidity, like that one part of the Underground where Hotland crossed Waterfall and- okay, no, that's off topic too. The gist is that you're annoyed. You're hot and sweaty and irrationally irritated and these videos of people falling off skateboards sure are great but you can tell their effect on you is wearing off, you're starting to feel the chill and your amusement is wearing thin and the hunger burning deep inside won't let you focus on anything in an endless cycle of-

Your coworker nudges your shoulder. Your skull snaps towards them, and okay, ow, you make a mental note to never do that again for the sake of your cervical vertebrae before actually tuning in to what they're saying.

They need to go to the bathroom. Right. That weird human thing. You nod and stand up from your place at the desk in the back of the booth, turning off your phone so you can properly man the station (or, as the case may be, monster the station).

(...You'll have to tell that one to Papyrus later.)

(If you remember it.)

(Yeah, never mind.)

The first few customers pass without issue (there's the one that tries to claw out your eyelight but you're pretty sure your instinctive snap at them with fangs that ache for what you'd trained yourself to survive on and unintentional cut on their arm that sends them running and crying fits within the "self-defense" category, so no issues there). It's the seventh human to walk up to you at the ticket booth that flips your logical thinking into oblivion for a moment.

Seven really must be a lucky number, because they're _perfect_.


	2. Chapter 2

The amusement park that you'd planned to go to with your friend wasn't too far from your humble abode in Newer Home (the rent was cheap and you lived nearby anyways, what else were you supposed to do, put in a proportional amount of effort to the pay you received in turn? hah), about ten minutes away by car and twenty-five away by your preferred travel method of bike. You don't like driving, partially because of your subconscious guilt over the state of the environment, partially because cycling is cheaper than paying for gas and such, partially because it's good exercise, and mostly because you can't actually drive... well, you can. You just can't drive the way the police likes it.

So here you are, the awkward seventh human in line from the front of the ticket booth, watching with no small amount of concern as the resident skeleton monster is attacked and snaps, lashing back with a near feral look, causing a deep cut in the human's arm, before the red light in their wide-open socket shrinks in realization of what they just did. When the next person in line briefly consoles them, they seem to relax again, and soon enough it's your turn.

"A wristband, please," you say. The monster stares at you for a moment blankly. Maybe they're processing what you said; most monsters need some time to do that due to the state of the Underground from what you know, and the jagged wound in the side of their skull looks less than pretty. Maybe they're curious about your shirt, which was supposed to match with your friend's before they had to bail last-minute for family reasons and left you too lazy to change. Maybe they're just annoyed at life in general and distracted. The last one seems pretty plausible considering their expression. You can relate. So you wait patiently, making eye contact to hopefully let them know you're not going to try and break their face like the other human.

Their blank stare, large stature, and general intimidating vibes make you want to hit and run too, just a little bit. But you won't try. They can't help how they look, even if the little alarm bell of instinct is going off in the back of your head yelling _DANGER DANGER DANGER RUN AWAY GET SOMEWHERE SAFE_ like a cat spooked by a cucumber.

You realize that the skeleton is no longer staring, their cheekbones and nasal ridge tinted a shade of red a little lighter than that of the light in their eyesocket that you're still not sure of the name of, and hold your arm out for the wristband in their hand. They put it on silently, handling your arm like you're the most fragile thing in the world and you'd die if they weren't careful. It's really sweet. It's also kind of patronizing, but you're willing to ignore that.

You're about to go have fun on whatever ride strikes your fancy when you blurt out, for some stars-forsaken reason, "Um, what's the light called? In your eyesocket, I mean."

The monster blinks at you a couple of times, their hand absently trailing to the edge of the socket with the red light inside. "...dunno. usually jus' c... call it m'eyelight... 'm not too, uh... creative." Their voice is rough and low, quiet enough to where you have to really pay attention to what they're saying over the wind. They smile at you crookedly.

"What's your name?" you ask, and the next instant, you ask yourself _what your problem is_. This person has no idea who you are...

...but thankfully, they seem willing to humor you anyway. "sans. sans th' skeleton."

You decide not to ask if they're named after the font. You've been rude enough, and there's somebody standing in line behind you now. You wave goodbye to Sans and head straight for your favorite ride. Unfortunately, your stomach reminds you that it still has contents from breakfast, and that might be a little too extreme for right away on a full belly. Something more gentle would work.

* * *

Finally, blessedly, your shift at the ticket booth is over. You'd barely been able to focus for the couple of hours after you saw that human. You stretch, feeling the little sparks of relief where your joints pop, and make your way over to the food carts. Papyrus would be mortified by the sheer amount of grease there, and you chuckle to yourself, picking your way through the crowd for some rice and dumplings. You'd rather play it safe after being attacked, and the smell of meat all around is making you twitchy, so excessive carbohydrates it is. Not that it matters. You take a moment to appreciate once more the wonders of being a skeleton monster.

As if on cue, you zone back in to find two of your phalanges hooked into your blind eyesocket. People are looking at you weird. Were you tugging at it again? You decide it doesn't actually matter.

You fit a bit awkwardly on the seat of the bench placed in the middle of the ring of food trucks, but you fit nevertheless. Humans are so small. It amuses you sometimes. Now is not one of those times, though, because you have food to eat, and you dig in. You can feel your mind slipping into the numb state it always does when you eat these days, and you let it. It's better than staying all there. It's better than the memories that fit all wrong in your mind. It's better than feeling the weight of the food in your mouth and feeling phantom hunger ache in your bones, begging you to attack, to fight for what you get.

It's better.

As you drift off, you vaguely see someone sitting down next to you. Huh. That's new. You polish off the food in record time (not that anyone has been keeping track) and let the stimuli around you ground you back in the present. The only bad part of dissociating like that is that it takes you a while to get through the cotton fuzz over your mind. If you could get away with it, you'd never let yourself leave that warm state. Sometimes the world is too bright and too fast and too loud and just... _too much._

You look over at the person sitting next to you. It's the funny human from before, the one who was weirdly polite in their curiosity about you. Usually the first question you get is "What happened to your skull?" or something similarly undesirable to think about. You still remember the moment your head broke open, ruining your memory, making you slow, and stars do you _despise_ Undick for it. It was a different kind of pain then, before you had to use it to ground yourself, before it was a necessary stimulus, before when there was a difference between good pain and bad pain. It all just hurt.

If you had been in the moment, you might have noticed yourself slowly tensing up, your hand creeping towards your empty socket. You subconsciously rub the inside of it. You're pleased in a weird, sick way by the soreness there, but it's not enough, the promise of more pain and quicker grounding is too tempting, and-

-you're brought back to the real world by a harsh pull at your eyesocket. Papyrus keeps saying you should stop doing that. You probably should. It makes people look at you like you're a freak. Sometimes it's accompanied by pity. Usually it's somewhere in between. You get it, to an extent; seeing something go where it shouldn't, especially in a place you use for seeing, is downright uncomfortable.

...Weren't you doing something else?

Your vision focuses, and you realize you've been staring at the human for way too long to be socially acceptable at this point. Then again, you're kind of a cannibal and more than kind of a murderer, so you're pretty sure your definition of "socially acceptable" is a little out of whack.

Lots of things about you are a little out of whack.

Before you can get lost on that thought for too long, you make yourself focus on the human. You can't read their expression, which is a surprise. Humans are pretty easy to read. This one looks... oddly blank for someone who just watched a skeleton monster blatantly stare at them and then hurt himself. Then again, you're not too sure yourself how you'd be supposed to react to seeing that.

They're trying to strike up a conversation. That's a little weird, but, well, you don't have too much place to judge, now do you? As always, it takes you a while to run through what you just heard enough to properly process it, and another while to speak without stuttering over yourself. The human introduced themself. You think they have a nice name.

As usual when you talk to someone that isn't Papyrus, you end up talking about Papyrus. (He's so cool.) Your sentences are filled with pauses and little stutters, but the human doesn't even seem to mind, especially since they reduce the longer you speak. Your throat is going to be so sore after this, but strangely, you find yourself not caring. "an' then 'e goes, heh-" You change your font, settling your hands at your sides and taking on a grumpy expression, one you're well acquainted with. "'BROTHER'-" There's a flash of something in their eyes, and you realize that's the first indication they've had of your gender or pronouns. You take a moment to feel warm and fuzzy over that. Not every human respects pronouns like that. Not that you have any clue that that's what that flash in their expression was, but hey would you look at that, sorry, you're fresh out of fucks to give, you want to feel warm and fuzzy about something and keep talking about Papyrus, so you continue your story. "-'YOU ARE EIGHTEEN MINUTES LATE! WHAT FANDANGERY HAVE YOU GOTTEN YOURSELF INTO THIS TIME,' an' so on, but when 'e sees my expression, all zoned out, 'e scoops me up an' gives me a big ol' hug- his hugs are the best, he's just... he's so cool, y'know?" The human nods. You grin wider. It reaches your sockets.

It's been a while since you've just talked with someone like this, and the human is a very good listener. You could get used to this.

At the end of your impromptu monologue about the merits of the Sock in the living room (yes, the capitalization is necessary), the human even offers to exchange phone numbers. Touchscreens with your phalanges are finicky, so your cell phone is a trusty flip-open style. You save them in your contacts as "cool fair human", and you're pretty sure you'll forget who they are by the next time you feel like chatting, so you type out a quick reminder in the notes section. _fair food trucks. had rice and dumplings. flashback to undick. talked to them about papyrus._ It never hurts to be thorough.

...Actually, sometimes it does hurt. But probably not now.

You wave goodbye to the human before heading home, proud of the acquaintance you've gained over your brother's coolness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis I, after many an hour of spacing out over this fic. There was just The One Line that definitely did Not want to be written, and I ended up scrapping a smooch. Sorry, but you'll get your smooches eventually.  
> This turned out coming out on a friend's birthday, so heck yeah I don't have to put further effort into a gift like a normal functioning human person. B)  
> Stay hydrated, y'all, and sorry for all the edits, AO3 is a mysterious beast I have yet to fully understand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for my favorite tag of all time to be introduced: Autistic Papyrus.  
> Chapter warnings: fairly graphic depiction of murder. If you'd like to skip it, don't read the paragraph that's entirely in brackets.

Whenever Sans isn't home, that usually means one of three things.

1: He's working one of his frankly ludicrous number of jobs.

2: He needs some time alone and is wandering off somewhere.

3: He's visiting the ex-Queen and they're plotting your inevitable demise via awful jokes together or whatever it is those two do.

Since he always tells you when he's going to Toriel's and you're at least 40% sure he's been off work for about half an hour now, you're fully prepared to see that zoned-out expression he has a lot but which still metaphorically breaks your metaphorical heart to see. But when he comes in, he's not hurt, or emotionally dead, or emotionally dead and pretending not to be.

He's smiling. He's smiling his big, _real_ smile that he usually reserves for you, and considering it's only fourteen times creepier than it used to be and he tries to dial it down to around twelve times creepier for you, that means he was doing something other than his usual three non-home activities.

You're so excited about this discovery that you flap your hands, letting the motion bleed out all the excess magic inside of you so it doesn't build up and make everything too loud and too bright and too... everything.

"WELCOME HOME, BROTHER!" There it is. The Papyrus smile. You scoop Sans up for a spinning hug, and he hugs back and his eyelight doesn't shrink, which, if you hadn't already known, would have clued you in that this is one of his good days. You set him down gently and repeatedly clap, the sound muffled by your gloves to more of a _fwump_ sound, as he tells you about his day.

Apparently he met a human, and they were very polite and he got their phone number and _oh my STARS your brother made a FRIEND._ You gasp, ceasing your clapping to rattle your bones all over. It's the only way you can properly express just how happy you are for him (which is VERY!!).

It only gets better from there, because he tells you he only had one episode today at his fairgrounds job, where he usually has at least three working around that many humans, and human children at that.

(He told you once, having been a little too deep in the bottle, that he remembers the feeling vibrating up the bone attack he'd stabbed through a kid with. He'd still been holding it, feeling acutely every feeble flutter of the dying muscle as it tried and failed to beat. He told you once that he doesn't regret it. He told you once that he still wants to feel it again, just a little bit, so tuned in to his surroundings and being hit with a flood of some nearly giddy feeling as the new LV washed over him. He told you once how it was like a drug, addicting and awful and wonderful all at once, how it hurt so much and it felt like his SOUL was cracking the first few times but it got easier over time until all he wanted was to do it again.)

(You had told him he needed to see a therapist. He did, and sees her every Tuesday.)

You zone back into the present when Sans shakes your shoulders. You're not sure how you ended up on the couch, trembling, with your knees to your ribcage, but that's where you are now. You blink at him a few times and hold out your arms, uncurling from your ball. He obliges you with cuddles until you calm down.

He doesn't ask what you were thinking about, knowing it'll only make things worse.

...You don't want to get up, but you do. You want to make progress on being better for yourself.

Funny how the Surface makes you want to do that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So since last chapter I mentioned Sans was having a good day, I wondered what a bad day of his would be like.  
> :)  
> Chapter warnings: Sans putting himself in a very basic, contented headspace with excessive pain.

You have no idea what you're feeling right now, but it's not too positive. Your phalanges crook into the sore inside of your skull. It's not your eyesocket. You tried that, but it wasn't good enough. The jagged edges of the hole in your skull prick your fingers for that little bit of extra pain to center you.

It's late. It's so late, in fact, that it's early, and Papyrus is doing that thing he does once or twice a week where he passes out on his bed and can't be woken until morning unless it's you waking him or there's a threat. You're not quite comfortable calling it sleep, since he does it so infrequently and it's a very intense slumber. Your brother does everything to a thousand percent. He's so cool.

You're trying not to think about your situation right now. The darkness in your room is blinding, hungry, sated only by the slowly dimming glow of your eyelight. You shudder out a breath and pull on the hole. A wave crashes over you, pain-shame-pleasure-greed and you can't tell if you're feeling want or need, and once you start you can't stop. The only sounds in the house are Papyrus's snoring and your own excited, ragged breathing. Every tug pushes you farther into the friendly little place in your broken head that makes you feel a little more complete. Papyrus hates when you hurt yourself like this, and you know if you keep going something will crack. You know your skull is more brittle around the wound. You know, in the end, it doesn't matter.

So you keep doing it. You yank and scratch and feel yourself slipping until you're just giggling into your pillow and feeling yourself being rocked to the core from the continuous pain you're giving yourself. You lose track of time, and where you are, and _who_ you are.

A hand rests on yours, steady in contrast to the shaking you're doing all over. You look up, knowing your eyelight is fuzzy and large and you're grinning that big, stupid grin you do sometimes like a happy dog, and see your brother's face. He looks... worried. Concerned. Your thoughts are coming in bursts, like the ticking of a very, very slow clock.

He's talking to you. You pull on your skull again. You don't want to talk.

He tries to take your hand away from your injury.

Your eyelight shrinks. Your smile drops. Everything freezes. Someone is growling, and it takes you a few ticks of your mind to realize it's you. You try to stop, but Papyrus is trying to take away your source of grounding, he just doesn't _get it, you need it, you like it, you need to, you, you need, you need to, you-_

Everything snaps into focus. Duck left, swing right. Kick left. Bite. You missed. Swing up right- your hand is caught. You're in danger. You feel well enough into the pain headspace that you can take your left hand away. You grab at something- anything. Something connects. Pull. Bite, bite, bite, you're _hungry, you need-_

You're trapped in BLUE magic. Your brother always did have a better hold on it than you. Your... brother, he...

You stop struggling, going limp in the hold, and stop thinking. Thinking is too much effort anyways. You're running on fumes and the pain that you just want more of, but can't be bothered to work against the magic for.

Your brother's hold is too gentle to get any friction off of. You want out so you can work yourself deeper into the hurt. It was funny. It made you feel good things. You whine high in your throat and try to roll over so you can keep tugging. A pleased little half-purring noise makes its way out of you when Papyrus jostles you lightly, once, and the movement gives you a taste of that pain you're craving from the soreness of your head.

When you're set back down, you immediately try to hurt yourself again, but your hole is covered by the patch your brother only uses when he knows you need to stop hurting yourself. You end up just sort of pawing at it, whimpering.

He's going to make you talk now, isn't he? You just want to stay warm and fuzzy and happy in this safe spot in your mind. You don't want to talk. Talking brings you out of the warm happy fuzzies.

"CAN YOU HEAR ME, BROTHER?" Of course he's going to make you talk. For now you just nod. Needing to think is bringing you back. You curl in on yourself and try to go further into your head again, but your hold is slipping, and the pain isn't good any more. It's bad pain now. You need more good pain. You need to stop thinking. You need to stay in your head. Pawing harder at the patch on your skull, you whine again. "CAN YOU SAY 'BLUE'? JUST 'BLUE'."

You shake your head and start to rock yourself. "...b-bl-" There's that stupid goddamn stutter of yours. "blue. blue. blue. b-blue, blue, blue," you can't stop saying it, _what's wrong with you,_ "b- b-" You cut yourself off by closing off your throat. You can't breathe, but at least you're not stuttering any longer. Your brother frowns.

"WHAT DID WE TALK ABOUT FOR DIFFERENT WAYS YOU COULD COPE?" he asks gently.

"...w-what did we. what did... what d-did- t-talk, talk. c... cope?" You hate the way you talk. You can never get your thoughts into words right, and even your thoughts are messed up.

"JUST ONE THING. YOU JUST NEED TO SAY ONE OF THE THINGS, OKAY?"

You hate that you need to start small like this. You take a deep breath. "...s-stim...?" At least you managed not to repeat that one.

"YES, THAT'S RIGHT. GOOD!" Despite everything, you find yourself melting at the praise. It feels good to be doing something right for once. "WHAT ARE SOME OF THE WAYS YOU CAN STIM?"

A long pause while your mind ticks. "hurt."

"BROTHER..."

"g-good s... tim. he-helps. helps. hurt." That's not what you wanted to say at all, why are you like this?

"THAT'S NOT A GOOD STIM, SANS. WHAT'S A GOOD WAY TO STIM? LIKE THE THERAPIST LADY TOLD YOU?"

_Why do you have to be so awful, so, so-_

"...b... ad. bad. b-bad." Why are you saying that out loud? You scratch at your skull, trying to leave marks. You want to go back to hurting. Hurting yourself is good.

"PLEASE... PLEASE DON'T HURT YOURSELF." You make yourself stop. You realize you're still rocking back and forth on the bed as you slowly take your hands down.

"r... r-rock? rocking. r-rocking is... a good... stim." Finally. You did what you wanted to do.

"GOOD! CAN YOU NAME SOMETHING ELSE?"

You can't. You think and think and think and it hurts, but you keep thinking and hurting and trying to remember and _why are you so STUPID?!_

"YOU DON'T HAVE TO SAY ANYTHING IF YOU CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING! IT'S OKAY, THAT'S WHY YOU TOOK NOTES."

"i-i took notes?"

"YES, WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO GET THEM?"

You don't. You stutter over your words again, trying to say that. "get. li-like me to g-get. ...r-rock." _Say more than that!_ "...want to. s-stay." That's better, but still wrong, _come on, Sans,_ "no, no n-notes."

"DON'T PUSH IT. YOU'RE OKAY WITH STAYING HERE AND ROCKING?" You nod. "OKAY. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO STAY?" You pause. He has work today, you can't make him... "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING AND IT'S NOT SELFISH TO WANT ME HERE. I ALREADY CALLED OUT OF WORK." You open your mouth, close it, and grip the sides of your ribs. It's your fault he- "IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT EITHER. I WAS FEELING A LITTLE UNDER THE WEATHER ANYWAYS. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO STAY?"

...

...

...You nod.

The two of you end up spending the whole day inside together, working on puzzles and piecing together your words and thoughts again. Papyrus has a knack for making you feel better on days like these.

He's so cool.

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOO! I DID IT!  
> Chapter 1 is finished, baby! This took me about an hour to roll out, which, all things considered, I'm pretty happy with!  
> Feedback of any kind is greatly appreciated, but either way, thanks for reading, and have an awesome day!


End file.
